


those hands (pulled me from the earth)

by teatales



Series: sweet and soft [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Gender Dysphoria, Hair Brushing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Child Abuse, Pet Names, Ron Weasley Fan Club, Trans Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-27 21:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21125762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatales/pseuds/teatales
Summary: HAIRY POTTER- a guide to the Saviour’s hairstyles through the years, more on p. 21.It seemed innocuous enough. That headlines about him had been relegated to the beauty and fashion section of the newspaper. It was laughable, really. That this is what they were coming up with, what counted as journalism. But Harry couldn’t laugh at all. Couldn’t smile. The sinking weight of shame and anxiety coursed through him, his limbs felt heavy and foreign at the edges of his body. His hair.His. Hair.Harry ran to his cupboard.





	those hands (pulled me from the earth)

**Author's Note:**

> This one is more angsty than I would have liked for sweet and soft BUT this was originally intended for this series and the end is a bunch of non-sexual intimacy soooo it's fine? 
> 
> That being said, warnings for discussions/mentions of: childhood abuse/neglect, transphobia, mental illness (past and present), dysphoria and body image issues, brief mentions of canon deaths (Cedric's, Harry's), one paragraph about sex. If you need warnings for specific stuff not mentioned here please leave a comment here or message me on tumblr!
> 
> Title from _Like Real People Do_ by Hozier via the generator as always.
> 
> (guide to leaving comments on fic: [https://teatalesbeetails.tumblr.com/post/187525930095/toybeluga-legsdemandias-legsdemandias tutorial](https://teatalesbeetails.tumblr.com/post/187525930095/toybeluga-legsdemandias-legsdemandias))

_ HAIRY POTTER - a guide to the Saviour’s hairstyles through the years, more on p. 21. _

It seemed innocuous enough. That headlines about him had been relegated to the beauty and fashion section of the newspaper. It was laughable, really. That this is what they were coming up with, what counted as journalism. But Harry couldn’t laugh at all. Couldn’t smile. The sinking weight of shame and anxiety coursed through him, his limbs felt heavy and foreign at the edges of his body. His hair. _ His. Hair. _Harry ran to his cupboard. 

Despite being a decade on from the last time he was there, as well as the fact that the upstairs spare closet _ technically _wasn’t a cupboard under any stairs, Harry still privately referred to it as his cupboard. He didn’t need it, most of the time. Didn’t think of it, didn’t even go in there. But in times of crisis like this, where he couldn’t hide from the past no matter how much or how far he ran, he retreated into it and into himself.

It was bigger than his first had been, but the scale was much the same. Harry as a grown man couldn’t lie down in it and only really had enough room to cross his legs in front of him. It was brighter, too, something he and Ron had argued about after the first time. Ron loved him and respected his space and his need to go in there sometimes, but knowing Harry was sitting alone in the dark was too much to take. There was a single automatic bulb high in the ceiling that surrounded Harry in a soft glow.

It was also cleaner. It was as new as the rest of their house with plush carpet and crisp paint. It wasn’t dark and filled with cobwebs and rusty nails. None of this really mattered to Harry, though. The fact that Ron cared about him so much of course mattered. But when Harry entered his cupboard he was in _ his cupboard, _and none of the physical furnishings around him were really there. 

*** 

One of his first memories. Perhaps aged four or five his hair had been left alone long enough that it had become a nuisance. It got in the way and it got _ everywhere_. Big and bushy and wild, it covered Harry’s scar and most of his face. Harry didn’t mind it, really. It was easy to hide in and kept his head warm in his cupboard. The only issue came from people being confused over who he was. His hair was long but his clothes, which were almost all cast-offs from Dudley, left them wondering. Uncle Vernon got mad when people thought Harry was a boy. It confused Harry, too.

Everything done in the Dursley household in regards to Harry’s existence was to make things easier for everyone else. From his clothes, to his food, to now his hair. Petunia became fed up with finding strands of it over the house, despite Harry’s careful attention the natural shedding was difficult to prevent. Petunia took him to have the same haircut as Dudley.

Tears sprung to his eyes as the barber finished shaving the back of his head. It was… awful. His reflection felt like it wasn’t his own. All Harry was left with were scraggly bangs covering his forehead and a bare head. Harry looked at himself in the mirror and tried to calm down lest Aunt Petunia got angry. _ No, not like this, _something inside him seems to yell. 

When Harry woke up the next morning his curls had been restored to their previous size. It felt miraculous, but it also scared him. He didn’t want anymore attention and knew that despite him not doing anything that he would be in trouble. Harry’s memories became fuzzy after that - all he remembered was Petunia sneering at him as Vernon screamed and screamed and screamed. _ “Girl! What’s all this then…knew you were a freak…ungrateful little twat…” _as Dudley tugged and tugged at his regrown hair.

***

Harry’s head hit the wall behind him with a thunk as he stared, unblinking, unseeing at the ceiling.

***

Throughout primary school his hair remained his favoured in-between length that left others people perplexed. At Privet Drive and from teachers it was always “girl” this and “girls over here” and something that was meant to be his name but it always felt… wrong. Numb. Like they were talking about some other Harry. His unusual and often unwashed appearance paired with his lack of social skills meant for the first eleven years of his life, Harry had not a friend in the world.

Hogwarts was certainly better than Privet Drive and allowed Harry to keep his hair as he liked without the judgement of his relatives. Everything about him was noted and analysed, of course, but very few negative comments ever reached his ears. His hair was never _ un_noticeable and people had a lot to say about it. _ Too short, too long, too big, too unkempt. _ Keeping it long had always been a sign of his autonomy. That his body was his, no matter what the Dursleys did. But being at Hogwarts relaxed this feeling slightly, and one day Harry got fed up with how long it had become.

He cut it shorter after his third transfiguration lesson, late in the night in the Gryffindor bathrooms. Using a slightly stiff pair of scissors transfigured from the hairbrush Molly had given him Harry chopped the ends of his hair off to be well above his shoulders. It fell in a lopsided bob, just below his ears. It felt… good. Better, at least, than the non-consensual bald cut that had previously been inflicted on him.

Harry never enjoyed the attention others paid to him for something he didn’t remember doing. He never enjoyed the attention people gave to his appearance, either. But he thought maybe the haircut would become the focus, something he could control.

***

Puberty was something that scared him as much as the return of Voldermort. Probably more, since it was a great unknown compared to the once-defeated enemy. The segregated talk Harry had been given in Year 5 terrified him and his own research in the school library did nothing to allay his fears. Being so alone for so much of the time rendered him observant, and Harry noticed the ways in which his classmates began to change as they headed towards secondary school. He remained as short and thin as he ever had, though, until he got to Hogwarts. 

Hogwarts was the first time in his life that Harry was properly fed and somewhat well-rested. This meant Harry was able to concentrate in class and his ribs stuck out less. It also meant that the changes so many of the girls in his year talked about finally began to happen to him.

A lot of those memories weren’t even accessible by pensieve, he had blocked them out so completely. But he had glimpses of his horror as his body became less and less his own. The curves and hair and the blood. He was thankful for the uniforms which hid his body, and he got away with wearing trousers in most of the time. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know what was underneath the robes, as much as he wished to forget it.

***

In the cupboard, the light switched off. It hasn’t registered movement in a long time.

*** 

Most of the time Harry was too busy trying to stay alive to take much notice of himself. But as the years went on, the differences between him and the other girls in his year began to stand out. It seemed so… easy, for them. To talk and laugh and play with their hair and talk about boys. As simple as breathing. He watched them when he could get away with it. The invisibility cloak helped with that. He didn’t know how to be like them. But he had always known, hadn’t he? That _ miss _ and _ girl _ and _ she _ were wrong. Getting from what felt _ wrong _ to felt _ right _was difficult. But with so many surrogate brothers treating him exactly the same as they did Ginny, and with Hermione not-so-subtly leaving him books and pamphlets about others like him, he eventually worked it out.

Harry still struggled to articulate it, though. It’s not as if he was raised to have a healthy emotional vocabulary. The turmoil both in and outside of him left Harry lashing out with seemingly no explanation. It’s not as if anyone else seemed to be feeling like him and the people on the pages he read seemed years and worlds away from his home at Hogwarts.

The pressures that came with the Tournament were possibly the worst. Photos of him were plastered across _ The Daily Prophet _, bets were placed on him for everything from whether he was in love triangle with Ron, Viktor and Cedric to if he was a lesbian, and the threat of the Ball was literal hell. Harry had already faced Voldermort a number of times but the thought of having to dress up, take a boy, and dance in front of three whole schools of his peers was worse than Azkaban. He survived only for the fact that Ron had agreed to accompany him, and he couldn't possibly let down McGonagall. It was still too much to bare - the looks and the whispers and the judgement. Harry managed to slip away as soon as The Weird Sisters started up, citing a headache and the need for a lie down. Ron didn’t fuss too much - he knew his friend wanted some time out of the spotlight and, like the rest of their year, was beyond excited for the band.

Harry made it back to the dorms without incident and found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror. His hair had grown out again. It felt like he didn’t have time for anything these days, let alone a haircut. Like his life and body weren’t his own. In the girls’ bathroom, in the lonely silence so far away from everyone in the castle, he could change one thing. With surprisingly steady hands Harry transfigured his toothbrush into a pair of scissors. They were better formed and sharper than his early attempt all those years ago. He met his green eyes in the mirror and began to cut. First, he returned to his now habitual rough bob. Harry stared for a long while, knowing now that he didn’t have accidental magic to just regrow his hair if he regretted it. But he knew he would regret it more if he didn’t try. He went to bed with a lighter head and heart than he had in a long time.

***

The war picked up and Harry was simultaneously the centre of attention and a part of the background. Voldermort was _ back, _ Harry had _ fought _ him, he had _ killed Cedric _and yet people still denied it. He was shunted off to Privet Drive once more and neither Hermione nor Ron sent him letters. The only human he remotely liked was Mrs Figg, and she only started being nice to him after the dementor business.

She was his only connection with the magical world and even then he was discouraged from contacting her. But Harry was beyond desperate. It felt like he was collapsing in on himself. One of the pamphlets he had risked taking back with him was now worn and creased for the number of times he had read it. Harry was a boy. A man really, with all he had seen. He wanted people to refer to him as such and to call him Harry and he wanted his body to be different. His own. Mrs Figg was his last resort.

It wasn’t _ that _ hard to sneak out. Despite Dumbledore’s instructions and the overbearing nature of his relatives, Harry was highly skilled at going unnoticed. Unseen. And besides, it was only a short walk down the street. Mrs Figg was surprised at his voluntary visit but something about the look on his face made her open the door wide enough for Harry to enter.

He didn’t remember most of their conversation. His anxiety was like a living thing inside him and it drowned out everything else. Harry knew that he had come out to her, somehow, through stuttered words and with shaky hands. He begged her to help him.

Mrs Figg, in the surprise of the century, came out to him too. She sat him down and gave him biscuits then disappeared into the other room and returned with scissors. On that faded, dusty, kneazle-and-cat-hair-covered sofa she cut his hair and promised to get him the potions he would need.

If he was going to die at the end of all this he might as well spend his money on something that would make him happy.

***

Sometimes his memory issues were a blessing. When Harry got to Grimmauld Place he exploded, lit up from the inside with fear and self-loathing and white-hot anger. His supposed best friends in the world had gone an entire summer without talking to him and he had needed them, desperately. It was worse still that the Order had to witness it.

He shared a room with Ron despite Molly’s protests and most of the adults tried to avoid using any pronouns for him altogether. The potion made him sweat and smell and his skin was a mess. Everyone was tense all the time, because of the war, because of the unknown, because of Harry. His own thoughts were a jumble without an evil bastard living in his head and he still didn’t know how he survived it. But he finally started to look like he was meant to.

***

Being on the run wasn’t exactly conducive for regular haircuts. Harry had packed as many vials of potion as he could before he had to ration them a third of the way into their camping trip. He didn’t have time to think about gender stuff, anyway. They were trying to stay alive. They were trying to win a war.

Slowly over their Horcrux hunt Harry’s hair got longer. It was strangely poetic he realised one night when he use his mane as a makeshift pillow. He never thought he would need _ that _ again. The longer hair also helped to hide his scar, his features, his face. They had disappeared from Bill’s wedding and Harry disappeared once more into himself.

His facial hair reached peak itchiness as Voldermort dug more into Harry’s mind. Sometimes he wanted to tear his head clean off. 

***

After the war - after his death - Harry shaved his hair right down. It was one of his better coping mechanisms at the time. He looked in mirrors and saw a ghost. A stranger. The drastic haircut was an attempt to reclaim his body. To try and make himself feel at home again.

Harry wasn’t sure if he had ever felt like that to begin with.

His beard was another matter. On the run they hadn’t much time to spend examining their reflections besides when checking the effectiveness of the polyjuice. He had felt the change, but he hadn’t witnessed it. When they got back, when he got _ back _, his reflection was foreign. Sullen and scratched and dirty, bloodshot eyes staring out beneath a fringe of matted hair and patchy barely-more-than-peachfuzz coating his chin. It was the first time he thought he looked like his father.

Ron caught him in the bathroom that night as he hacked away at the remnants of his mop. He wanted to leave the razor until last - he had never used one before and had stolen it from some other sink. Only when Ron asked if he could enter did Harry realise that he had been crying when he struggled to form a reply. He managed to say yes and put the razor down with a shaky hand.

Ron closed the door softly behind him as he took in the scene. “Hey, Harry.”

Harry just blinked at him.

Ron put two and two together - Harry’s hair strewn across the floor, the choppy short cut framing his face, the razor he had been holding. “Let me do that, yeah? Sit down.”

Harry unfroze and shakily sat on the closed toilet seat that Ron had gestured to.

It was well past midnight. Harry had died yesterday. They were both still in shock.

Ron rinsed his hands in the sink and ran his hands through Harry’s hair to wet it. He flinched at the touch and Ron paused. Harry released a shuddering breath and leaned consciously into the touch, then closed his eyes.

With his steady, large hands Ron shaved the remaining hair from Harry’s head. He started with the front and moved backward, Harry’s head eventually came to rest against his stomach as he leaned over him.

Ron waved his wand to remove the cuttings and dry Harry’s head. Harry shivered as the air ran past it. Ron then stepped back and kneeled in one smooth movement. Harry opened his eyes at the shift, face blank, and then closed them again in exhaustion. He bared his throat to Ron.

Ron swallowed at the gesture. Only yesterday was Harry offered up for slaughter and now he was here, giving himself up to Ron’s blade.

He reached out and steadied one hand on Harry’s neck. Ron rubbed at the goosebump covered flesh to comfort this friend. Harry let out a sigh.

The only sound that filled the bathroom was the soft scrape of the razor against Harry’s face as Ron gradually removed the hair. He finished and wiped the remaining foam away with a cloth. Harry leaned into the action, lax and breathing slowly.

Ron dropped the cloth to the floor. Harry looked so _ young _ and so, incredibly weary. Ron didn’t even know what he was doing until he did it and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

_ Ron. _

***

Harry’s eyes slowly opened. He blinked away the dried tears as he tried to work out where he was. He looked up into the darkness and winced at sharp pain that exploded in his neck. Merlin.

His eyes adjusted to the lack of light and realised he was curled up on the floor of his cupboard. Ah. He groaned as he began to stretch out and the blood rushed back into his limbs. Must have been there a while, then. The light registered his movements and clicked on.

There was nothing more exhausting than anxiety, Harry had found, and the flashbacks had taken so much out of him. He felt like on giant exposed nerve.

Harry knew he should get out and get back to reality but he… couldn’t.

***

Ron returned home in the floo and called out to his boyfriend. He didn’t get a response which was strange. Harry rarely napped and he said he would stay home that afternoon. Ron slowly walked through the living room as he looked around for Harry. He wasn’t in the hall and once Ron got to kitchen it was obvious he wasn’t there either. He went to turn away to venture upstairs when he caught sight of the mail.

Ron picked up the newspaper and cursed once he skimmed the front page. He urgently called out for Harry again and ran up the stairs when he was met again with silence. Ron went straight to the cupboard.

He swore under his breath when he found the door closed shut.

“Harry?” Ron pressed his ear against the door but couldn’t hear much of anything. He knocked on it gently.

“Harry, sweetheart, can you hear me? I’m going to have to open the door, alright?”

Who knows how long Harry had been in there. Ron held his breath for a few moments as he waited for a response that never came. He sighed, and crouched down to be at eye level with Harry as he opened the cupboard.

Harry was curled up in the dark, knees bent and eyes red from crying. His body shivered slightly - from the shock or from only being in a thin t-shirt in the cold, Ron wasn’t sure. Harry’s head turned at the movement but although he faced Ron, his eyes didn’t focus on him. It was like he was still in some far-off place in his mind. As much as he wished to Ron knew touching him right now wouldn’t help. It might even do more harm than good. So he rocked back on his heels and softly whispered one of the spells he had learned for times like this.

A soft sphere of light left the tip of Ron’s wand. It glowed in a faint blue colour and was the size of galleon. It stopped about ten centimetres out from Harry’s face and waited until his eyes began to focus on it. When he did, it glowed slightly brighter before it turned purple. Harry’s breath was still shallow and his brow furrowed at the colour change. The light slowly moved back and forth horizontally where it rested in front of Harry. His eyes locked onto the movement and the single sphere split in three. They were green, now, and slightly brighter again. Ron watched as Harry’s face became more alive where it was lit up by the glow. The spheres were still, then the leftmost one rose above the line and sank back down, just as the middle one began to do the same. They moved in a soothing wave and the arms which were so tight and stiff wrapped around Harry’s drawn-up knees loosened. He watched the dancing lights for a few more minutes and his eyes became less glassy. Ron watched on patiently.

The spheres became a warm yellow and filled the bottom half of the cupboard with light. Harry sat up a bit and blinked as he came back to himself. He tried to turn his neck but it was incredibly sore from remaining in one position so long so he only looked with his eyes.

“Ron?” he asked, throat hoarse after hours of misuse.

Ron dismissed the spheres with a simple _ finite_. “Yeah, Harry, I’m here.”

Harry nodded imperceptibly but made no move to get up. On the floor of the hallway Ron shifted to sit cross-legged. He summoned the plastic mug from the kit on the top shelf and filled it with an augmenti, then offered it to Harry.

Harry reached out one hand slowly and winced as he flexed his fingers. He took small sips of the water until the mug was half empty and he put it down.

Ron summoned another item down, a soft jumper they stored there for times like this, and broke the silence. “I think you should come out now, love.”

Harry sighed. The lights and water had helped to ground him but even that wasn’t enough to make him feel comfortable out of the small space. He trusted Ron, though, to not let anything hurt him. He nodded reluctantly.

Between the two of them they were able to stretch out Harry’s tired limbs enough for him to put the jumper on and get unsteadily to his feet. Once standing his knees buckled as the blood began to circulate correctly. Ron’s arms shot out to grab him before he fell and he steadied his boyfriend as Harry got his feet under him. The contact soothed some part of Ron’s brain that needed to know, physically, that Harry was alright. It was the first time they had touched since he had gotten home. Harry leaned into him.

As they shuffled into the hallway Harry closed his eyes at the brightness with a wince. The house was filled with the light of the setting sun and all of the curtains were open. Ron noticed and reached around to grab his wand from his pocket. With his free hand he spelled the curtains shut then put it back. He paused as Harry grew more steady.

“Do you want some space now, Harry?” he asked.

Harry let out a shaky breath. “God, no. Please don’t, don’t go.”

“Alright, I won’t, love, it’s okay,” Ron said soothingly. “We both need to eat, though. Don’t know how long you were in there. Kitchen, yeah?”

“Mm,” he agreed.

The couple wandered downstairs. Harry’s muscles were still stiff but his circulation had returned to normal and he could walk mostly without Ron’s support. They remained close together though - neither wanted the other to leave their sight.

Harry and Ron made it to the kitchen where Ron tucked himself into the corner of the breakfast nook. Although the room itself was spacious the nook was cosy and against a wall, which Ron thought might help Harry feel more comfortable. He looked a little lost once Ron sat down until he opened his arms and Harry climbed on top of him.

Ron held Harry for a long time and rubbed small circles into his back. At least he was warming up, that was something. He was still shaky, though, and that didn’t subside. It only worsened.

Harry let himself be held. It was a wonderful comfort after the ordeal he had gone through today. He didn’t feel good, yet. Didn’t feel like himself. And being grounded back in reality made him only more aware of all the unpleasant physical sensations he was feeling. And how hungry he was.

Soon Ron had a lapful of trembling wizard and not for any of the reasons he usually enjoyed. They had to eat.

“Harry, you’re shaking. And I know it’s partly ‘cause of everything, but you also haven’t eaten for a while now. Do you want to walk or do you want me to carry you?”

Harry just clung on a little tighter.

Ron moved his hands down to lift under Harry’s butt as his legs wrapped closer around his waist. He lifted them both in one smooth motion then awkwardly shuffled out from behind the table.

Sometimes Harry got dysphoric about his height, how small he was compared to Ron. But he loved being held and carried like this, loved how strong his boyfriend was. He sighed into Ron’s neck, grateful that he didn’t have to make any of the hard decisions.

Ron deposited him on the counter top as he turned to quickly gather up some food. Luckily they kept a variety of snacks at hand for when food got hard for Harry, they were (inevitably) running late to something, or when their various niblings stopped by. As he passed back and forth in front of Harry he made sure to keep in close proximity.

When he returned, Ron stood between Harry’s spread thighs and pressed in close. He had placed the plate piled with food off to the side so Harry couldn’t see anything but him. He leaned in to brush a kiss against Harry’s cheek but he flinched, and Ron paused.

“Sorry, love,” he said, and backed off.

Harry nodded. “S’okay, just jumpy.”

Ron have a sad smile. “Yeah. Food time, then.” He picked up an identical pair of unwrapped protein bars and handed one to Harry.

They both began to eat slowly but as Harry’s taste buds woke up he devoured the snack. Ron silently handed him another as he finished it. They moved on to the next food - cheese and crackers, then peanut butter and apple slices. After he finished half a dozen of each Harry paused and licked his lips, his mouth dry. Ron reached around and produced another glass of water. Harry took slow sips, not wanting to deal with hiccups at a time like this. He sighed and put the glass down as he finally began to feel less empty.

“Merlin, Ron. I have no clue how late it is. What’s the time?”

Ron’s eyes flicked up to the clock behind Harry and answered.

“Hmm,” Harry hummed and his eyes glazed over as he became lost in thought. He still wasn't sure how long he had spent in the cupboard. It felt like years; it felt like seconds. 

Ron watched as Harry retreated into his head. “None of that, Harry,” he said firmly. “Just focus on getting full right now.”

Harry looked back up at him and blew out a breath. “Yeah, okay. More?”

“‘Course,” Ron said and passed over a pot of yoghurt and a spoon.

As he finished it Ron offered a “good job, love.” From most people that would be condescending but they had both learned long ago that Harry craved the positive reinforcement that has been missing for most of his life.

Harry put the yoghurt down and tentatively placed his hands on Ron’s waist. Ron rubbed his back and a comfortable silence fell between them.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now, Harry, but was it because of the paper?"

Harry didn’t need clarification as to what ‘it’ was. He sighed. “Yeah, it was.”

Ron modded. “Alright. If you want to talk about it, feel free to, okay? But in the meantime…”

“In the meantime?” he prompted.

“Well, I have an idea, but I don’t know if it’ll help or not,” he shrugged.

Harry just looked at him.

“Okay, okay,” Ron placated. “D’you maybe want me to brush your hair for a bit? Maybe, like, add to the good memories associated with it, ground you a little?”

Harry considered the offer. He _ was _ feeling a little better, and he _ did _ love when Ron played with his hair. If he started to feel bad again they could just stop. He knew that. 

Eventually Harry nodded. “Okay.”

Ron broke into a smile. “C’mon.” 

Ron lead him by the hand to the living room where he spelled up the lights to a soft glow. He dropped a cushion down on the floor in front of the sofa and summoned Harry’s hairbrush from the upstairs bathroom. Harry folded down onto his knees, grateful for the clear expectation, as Ron put a movie on the television. 

He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s just me here, okay, Harry? Tell me if you feel uncomfortable or want to stop or anything.”

He replied with a soft “Okay.”

As Ron made contact with the brush which made Harry tense up and he stopped and waited. Harry forced himself to relax and Ron continued on with no comment.

He started with gentle strokes over the very top of Harry’s hair to get him used to the motion. The stress eased out of Harry’s shoulders and Ron pressed firmer, now actually brushing through the messy curls.

Ron obviously didn’t have the first hand experience but he knew how complicated Harry’s relationship with his hair was, as with the rest of his body. He had been there for most of it. He loved Harry’s hair, though. It always ended up under his chin when they hugged or tickling his face during sleep or in the sink. All these years later it stood out because Ron was so used to being surrounded by a family of fellow redheads. Ron’s eyes still locked onto Harry when he saw a glimpse of him in a crowd.

Harry gradually calmed as Ron brushed his hair. It was nice and grounding, after the day he had. It still sucked to be reminded of his life before he knew who he was. And that so many others were reminded of it, too. They probably hadn’t forgotten, anyway, with the amount of charity work Harry did with LGBTQ+ kids. Photo evidence was different, though. That face that was meant to be his. He sighed. He couldn’t do anything about it now. He was here with his wonderful boyfriend and he could handle that, at least, for the moment.

Ron continued to brush and caught on a tangle which meant he had to pull. Harry’s head went with the brush and he made a displeased noise.

“Sorry, love,” Ron apologised.

He never wanted to hurt Harry, but the tug reminded him how beautiful it was during their more intimate moments, too. When yanked on from the roots his boyfriend made the most delicious noises. He loved being positioned by a fistful, loved Ron holding onto it while he fucked his mouth. When it was plastered with sweat to his forehead and Ron pressed a kissed to the shaved underside. He loved all of Harry, so much. But that particularly train of thought wasn’t for now, though.

Ron smoothed Harry’s hair into place and put the hairbrush to the side. The movie played on in the background but he knew neither of them were paying attention.

Harry’s breath had evened out and his eyes had closed. The repetitive motions had steadied him greatly. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what people think. They would think like that with or without some trashy news article. He had people who loved him, so very much. He would be okay.

Ron pressed a kiss to the top of his head and Harry tipped his face up to meet Ron’s eyes.

“Hey.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Ron replied. “How are you doing?”

Harry hummed in contemplation. “Better. Much better, thanks to you.” Ron smiled at the answer. He was very lucky, to have so much of Harry’s trust.

“I’m glad to hear it. I think it’s time for bed though, yeah?”

Harry pouted. “Mmm, I don’t want to move,” he whined.

Ron knew how to fix that. “If you stand up, I’ll carry you upstairs.”

Harry gave a shy grin. Just want he wanted. “Help me?”

“Always.”

Harry scooched forward on his cushion to let Ron up from the sofa. Ron then stood in front of Harry and offered his hands. Harry grabbed on and leveraged himself up.

They paused for a moment as Harry got his bearings. Ron then moved his arms behind Harry’s back and under this knees and swept him into his chest. A delighted laugh burst out of Harry at the gesture and he buried his face into Ron’s shoulder. Ron walked them carefully out of the living room and up the stairs to the bedroom as Harry spelled the lights few remaining lights off on the way.

Ron tipped Harry onto the bed where he bounced a few times before he settled and scooted up to meet the pillows. Ron shoved his trousers off and joined him on the other side.

“Shouldn’t we brush our teeth, Ron?”

“Mm, probably,” he replied, with no indication of moving.

Harry grabbed his wand from the side table and muttered a spell. He grimaced once he was done. Ron thought he looked adorable.

“Never quite the same, is it?” Ron asked, smug. 

“Not at all,” Harry yawned. “Doesn’t mean you’ll get to kiss me if you have morning breath.”

Ron knew that was patently untrue. Bad breath did nothing to stop Harry's kisses, but Ron could pretend otherwise. “Fair deal. I’m not moving from this bed for at least eight hours, though.” Ron settled back against the pillows then looked to his boyfriend. “You want me close or far, Harry?”

“Close, please,” he said, already moving.

“‘Course.” Ron met Harry halfway across the sheets and grabbed hold of him, shuffling to be the big spoon. He placed one hand over Harry’s heart and he buried his face in that gorgeous mop of hair.

Harry placed his own hand on top of Ron’s and smiled into the pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! I would love it if you left some. 
> 
> Also, I'm looking to do NaNoWriMo next month (working on my multichap fic of trans Harry, rewriting uhhh most of canon wish me luck) so I won't be posting anything new here all of November. But knowing me I'm always on ao3 anyway, so I'll be lurking even if I'm not writing.


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